Bonus Episode: Lost Days
by Larkwings
Summary: A week before Layton and crew investigate the disappearing Barthalul artifacts in Monte d'Or, a certain assistant runs off on her own adventure…. (Part of Professor Layton and the Anomalous Entity)


**Author's Note**: Hello everyone! I am happy to share a little side project that has been in the works since the beginning of Professor Layton and the Anomalous Entity. If you have read Chapter 18, then congratulations, you've unlocked this bonus. If not, I suggest reading to that point first, for the sake of spoilers and understanding.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy _Lost Days_.

* * *

Bonus Episode: Lost Days

**Monday**

I don't know what to think anymore. About myself…my life…

It strikes me now how delicate the pieces to my existence sit, in a nearly perfect stack of lies and omissions. How easily everything can come undone…

It's all much too heavy for a Monday morning.

The letter –culprit to all these horrible thoughts- trembles in my hand, freshly opened from this morning's post. I read it over, and over again, but each time I still don't process what the letter truly means or what is happening. I'm not sure what I'm feeling at the moment, but I don't like the uncertainty that comes with the words on this page.

I take a seat on the couch and force myself to read the letter one more time:

_Dearest Emmy Altava,_

_ Warren Coates is dead. I know that if anyone knows the whereabouts of his Barthalul artifact it's you. I need it, and you will give it to me. You have plenty of time to locate it. Another message will be sent with further instruction._

_ Don't keep me waiting._

I take a shaky breath and set the letter aside. My brain goes into rapid fire spewing ideas left and right -like who could have sent the letter, and how did they know me- but only one keeps popping up enough for me to cling onto ...

…Warren Coates is dead_. _

_My father's dead. _

\-\-\

I'm having one of those rare moments where I'm at a loss of what to do. I'd barely started my morning, I haven't even had tea yet – the kettle whines on the stove, but to no avail- and I start work at the University in an hour. An hour to sort this mess out.

Oh fuck, he's dead_._

I run a shaking hand over the telephone. Maybe this was a trick, a set up to get the Barthalul artifact from old Warren Coates. But who could I call to confirm it? No one.

Oh, bloody hell.

I have this feeling in my gut, writhing around like some horrid beast that someone is indeed after the artifact.

But was Warren Coates' death a lie?

I have to be sure. And that means I have only one option. It's a crazy stupid option that makes me question my standards of a good idea. Before I can argue more, I dial a familiar number and anxiously wait.

Oh, what am I doing? Oh, f-

"Hello?"

All my nerves bunch up in my throat. I swallow them and put on my cheeriest tone, "Good morning, Professor. I know this is short notice, but something's come up…."

\-\-\

I can't believe I pulled it off. The Professor, who was albeit tired sounding and probably not at his best, didn't seem too suspicious of my sudden "family get together". It was nice to hear the Professor's voice, he's always so good in these sorts of situations and I wish I had the courage to tell him.

But I don't and I was dying inside the whole two minutes the conversation lasted.

On the bright side, getting off work on such short notice for the next week and a half was easier than expected.

I play over my master plan as I race on the winding roads just outside London. My trusty yellow scooter whirs and screeches on the dirt trails and I have a small suitcase clumsily strapped down with whatever clothes I managed to grab on my way out the door. It isn't a very good plan to be honest. I just want to get as far away as possible.

I pull over to the side of the road for a moment. I know where I'm heading, but I do not want to go. Pulling my beloved camera from its pouch on my belt, I run my fingers over its buttons and dials.

Photography makes me feel alive. I love nothing more than a good picture.

Perhaps I'll take my time getting there? Take some pictures on the way…

The idea of a photography road trip puts me at ease for the first time this morning. For a while I forget about Warren Coates, and his Barthalul artifact wanted by the sender of the upsetting letter.

I snap a shot of the twisting road ahead.

* * *

**Tuesday**

I pull out from the motel bright and early. There is a chill to the air this morning, and I shiver a bit as my scooter thunders down the road. Today is going to be a day for myself. No thoughts of Coates or where I'm going. Just the refreshing air and the countless photographs I will take.

The letter I received yesterday hangs like lead in my yellow jacket; a reminder as to why I'm out in the middle of nowhere. Feeling it ruins the mood, I park my scooter to the side and throw the jacket in with my jumbled suitcase. I also exchange my blouse and trousers for a tank top and shorts.

"Who cares if it's brisk?" I call to the untraveled road. "I want to feel the wind run through me!"

Best start to the bloody week.

Ever.

\-\-\

At around four o'clock, it begins to rain. Not a nice warm sprinkle, but buckets of frigid water pouring from the sky with the wrath of the world. I could care less. I'm soaked. My stuff is soaked. I'm freezing and can barely steer in the sheets of rain.

It's a grand time indeed.

"Bring it on!" I cry and crank up the speed. The scooter sways dangerously, but I regain control. I turn myself into a skid then straighten out. The downward slopes of hills give me an extra boost of speed. I don't care what happens at this moment. The adrenaline running through me feels so good, like not even Warren Coates could dampen my mood. I hate to admit it, but this is better than photographs! Better than hot chocolate! Better than puzzles!

_Puzzles…_

My mind goes blank….

…_The Professor_….

No nothing's better than puzzl—

I haven't been paying attention to the road. Time seems to move impossible fast as my scooter hits a puddle and I have only a millisecond to register it hydroplaning, then I'm flying through the air, and come to a skidding halt in the middle of the road.

I lie there in shock. My eyes glued on what used to be my scooter, smashed to bits a few feet away.

I'm afraid to move. Afraid I'm just as wrecked as my scooter. I'm afraid to feel the pain.

"Please don't," I whisper. The world starts spinning and I feel myself letting go. "Please,

you're…you're hurting me…."

\-\-\

"Miss! Miss, can you hear me?"

I groan a little and squint as a bright light assaults my eyes.

"Miss, are you okay?"

I sit up shakily and blink at the man holding the torch. The rain has let up a bit.

"You took a bad wipeout there," he says. The man's voice has a tender edge to it. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"What's your name dear?"

"Emmy."

"Just Emmy?"

"Emmy Altava," I say looking over the man. He is an older fellow with graying hair and a scraggly beard, and I'm reminded of a lumberjack.

"How many fingers now?"

"Two."

After the stranger deems I'm not concussed, I check myself over, and thankfully find nothing broken. Though, I'm incredibly sore, and my entire right side's pretty scrapped up from the fall.

"That'll sting for a bit," he says, picking over what remains of my scooter.

I look sadly at the ruined vehicle. That could have been me if I'd landed differently_. _The thought makes me queasy. I'm incredible lucky.

I crawl over to my suitcase, locate my belt and pull my camera from its pouch. Thankfully, it survived the incident unscathed. "I think I'll live."

The man picks the scooter up and throws it in the back of his pick-up with little difficulty. He then grabs my sopping luggage bag from a puddle and it joins the scooter.

"I'll give you a lift to the next town," he says. "Can't leave you alone out here."

"Thank you," I say, getting into the passenger side.

The man smiles, revving up the engine and continues up the road. "Now what is a pretty lass like yourself doing all the way up here in a thunderstorm?"

I think back to the letter in my jacket. The reason I'm on this sidetracking journey. Only I'm avoiding the exact place I needed to go.

"In all honesty… I don't really know."

* * *

**Wednesday **

The man drops me and my belongings off at a quaint little motel in a place I don't know. That's a good thing in my mind, because it means I'm far away from where I don't want to be.

I thank the man many times for the lift, and assure him that I can handle myself from here. I did, however, wish to know his name so I could one day return the favour. The man refused and simply said that helping a young lady out was reward enough.

With that the man drives away, leaving me with thoughts of Professor Layton. The Professor was always keen to help people out and expected nothing in return. He really was a great man, and now I couldn't help but try and picture an older Layton, with a woodsman's beard and driving a rusty pick-up instead of his Laytonmobile.

The image makes me giggle, and I decide that although a gentleman could come in any shape or form, the Professor was definitely the more traditional kind. He would never grow such an outrageous beard.

The thought of a Professor with stubble does cross my mind, particularly how hot he might be with a five o'clock shadow….(I will later blame these immature thoughts on the fact I'm tired, because it's three in the bloody morning and I don't function well without sleep –or copious amounts of caffeine to make up for it.)

So although exhausted, I manage to get a room, and first aid kit from a very tired and grouchy looking desk clerk, who grumbles every thirty seconds about rent and bratty children and Prime Minister Bill Hawks, and just about everything there is to complain about on our dear lovely planet.

I make my way to the room, where I strip out of my clothes to properly clean the scrapes along my right side –which thankfully aren't too bad if I do say so- change into some semi-dry pajamas and string the rest of my wet clothes around the room to dry.

I fall into bed with a loud moan, and don't wake up until almost noon.

\-\-\

I'm usually not the type to start the day so late. Truthfully, I'm not an early riser, up with the first glimpse of sunlight like a certain professor I know. But the last time I'd slept an entire morning away was back in my college days, and to be frank, I was so hung over at the time I didn't even remember what shenanigans 'Drunk Emmy' had gotten into.

(Admittedly, there was the Gressenheller New Year's party too, but I'd rather forget whatever fragments of the incident I can recall.)

Today there's no doubt about what last night held. The only alcohol I'd come into contact with was the wash to clean my scraped up arm and legs, but I might as well have hit the hard stuff because I feel like shit.

Everything aches, the road rash stings, my head feels heavy, but worse is the knot in my gut. I almost will myself to be sick so it will go away.

Only I know it won't help in the end.

I locate the letter and read it over three more times. It still feels so unreal. Someone coming after the Barthalul artifact. Warren Coates being dead….

_Is he really dead?_

That's what this whole unexpected road trip is supposed to answer. Though, the trashed scooter might put a damper on my little quest.

Technically I could have been there yesterday, if I hadn't wasted so much time…. How am I supposed to get there now?

Do I even _care_?

It has been years since I last spoke with Coates. We didn't exactly part on a happy note either. I should feel relieved that the man is gone. That I never have to worry about him tracking me down. That I never have to hear from or see him again….

Not that Coates really ever bothered me after I left.

I continue throwing my still damp clothing into the suitcase, searching the room one last time for any stray belongings. All that is left to do is call a tow truck for my scooter, grab a bite to eat, and figure out where I'm going next.

The whole time I find myself humming a little tune to drone out whatever unpleasant thoughts come to mind.

\-\-\

I vow that I will never hitchhike again. Or, rather, I will never _attempt_ to hitchhike again. The road isn't very well traveled, but there are enough cars going by and one of them has to contain a nice enough stranger to give a girl a lift.

Maybe it's the circumstances? I consider playing dead by the roadside to attract attention. Someone had been worried enough to check on me before….

…Poor scooter.

A truck came for my scooter earlier, and the driver, a kind looking young man, offered me a ride back to London, but I declined, knowing I have other places to be.

But I really don't want to go.

Good gosh, I can't run away forever….

If the next five cars don't offer me a ride, I'm going to take things to drastic measures. A topless woman at the side of the road ought to catch a man's attention. Or I can just call a cab to take me to the train station.

And because I know the scooter repairs are going to put me in some debt, I seriously consider flashing the approaching blue sedan to save myself the cab fare.

Thankfully, something goes right for once, and the sedan pulls over, saving me from losing what remains of my honour.

I almost have second thoughts when I see the driver. He's sketchy looking with a long, crooked nose, and pointed chin, and this toothy grin. Not to mention that he's got his hair done up in two points, like devil horns. And he dresses like he's just come back from a children's magic show. Not to mention that moustache…it screams sleazy creep.

He props the door open and invites me in, even getting out to put my suitcase in the boot.

I don't really have much choice in who I tag along with, and at the very least he seems nice, so I jump into the passenger side.

We continue forth, the stranger and I. He asks me how my day is going, to which I reply, "Just fine, and yourself?" The stranger laughs and says he is glad to have company, as he was getting lonely on this long drive.

I thank him for giving me a lift and ask where he is going. He shrugs and tells me he doesn't really care he's just looking for some inspiration. But where might I be headed?

I try to explain the cottage. In truth, I haven't been there in years, and I'm not quite sure where it is exactly, but I know that it's somewhere along this road. That much I remember.

He then asks me my name, and introduces himself as Paul.

\-\-\

Paul is a sweet guy.

He's nothing like I expected really, from the weird way he dresses I thought I'd gotten into the car with a psycho. (There are some eccentric people out there). And although he isn't without his quirks, Paul is polite, and talkative, and I find myself at ease with him.

Maybe because I find him so relatable…

We spend a good couple of hours in the car, and he gives me a rundown of his life. Well, the more interesting parts. When Paul was a boy, his biggest wish in the world was to fit in. He was always the outcast in games, and the other kids would tease him for having a big nose or liking classical music –even as he tells me this, he's got the radio belting some Mozart (or is it Beethoven?). Sometimes when the kids were being particularly mean they would destroy the contraptions he worked so hard on –Paul tells me he's always had a knack for inventing.

I know what it's like to not belong. I've always felt like I wasn't like the other girls, more interested in exploring and playing in the mud, than playing with dolls and having tea parties. And well, I was a girl, so the boys wouldn't have me either once they got to a certain age. Preppy rich kids they were. Even adults were wary with me…probably because of Coates now that I think about it….

But life goes on, and soon Paul went off to University, where he studied engineering. It was there that he met the love of his life. He goes on to describe how amazingly wonderful she is, but truth be told, I kind of tune him out at this point.

Unfortunately, the girl didn't love him back. She had her heart set on another man. A man who couldn't protect her when the time came….

He has a difficult time telling me this, and I feel bad for him. I really do.

It's hard losing someone you care about.

So, Paul decided that being Paul was no fun, and he would rather be someone else. He spent the years hiding, learning the tricks of the trade to become a Master of Disguise. I haven't the foggiest clue how one becomes a "Master of Disguise" or what that even entails.

Oh, and he also continued to invent, but nothing's really worked out in that department either.

"I'm just trying to find myself," says Paul.

He doesn't have to tell me he's a lost man. I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. I know, because we really aren't that different, he and I.

A motel with a bar comes into view, and this one I recognize. My father and I would often stop here and chat up whoever happened to be around. Paul pulls in, deciding that it's best to call it a day.

"What's your story, Emmy?" he asks.

I sigh and lean against the window. The car hits a bump in the road, and I knock my head against it.

"I just came here to sort some things out," I say.

Paul doesn't chastise my lame response. He simply gets out, and tells me he will take me to the cottage tomorrow.

* * *

**Thursday**

I find Paul around mid-morning, and we set off again. This time he isn't nearly as friendly, and we spend the fifteen or so minutes it takes us in silence. I spot a small building in the distance, way off on top of a hill. He pulls up to a gravel driveway and lets me out.

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for," he says. "If not, you can join me for a drink back at the motel."

With that Paul drives away.

\-\-\

It is a rather nice morning, warm with a light breeze. A pair of meadow larks flutter by, merrily singing to each other. I wonder for a moment, what they might be saying. If Luke were here, he could ask them.

Luke. I miss the kid. And the Professor of course. Both of them … they're really all I have.

I find myself humming down the long gravel road, wishing there was someone to talk to, because I am seriously tone death.

Once upon a time, I would have been excited to come here. I would have skipped through the fields and cried out in pure joy for the beauty of the moment. I would search for the perfect spot for stargazing that night, and my father would tell me to mark it off with some twigs so we could find it later.

He used to be so happy here. It was a break for him. Mum never joined us; I think she just appreciated not having to clean up after the two of us all the time. I don't think she would have approved of the cottage, it wasn't a luxurious excursion. We always brought her home a bouquet of wildflowers though. She loved that. But in the end, the cottage was a place for my father and me.

My father and me. Happy. Together.

I'm not exactly sure when I turn around, and begin the long journey back to the motel on foot.

I think I may take Paul up on that drink.

**\-\-\**

"Bullocks!"

Paul cries and stamps his fist on the table. "Missed again! Darn, faulty darts!" He throws back a shot and staggers, more than a little intoxicated at this point.

I laugh at his exaggerated reaction, feeling pretty good myself. I got back to the motel by late afternoon and found him sulking with the bartender. After a couple of beers we decided to try our hands at darts, with the added rule of whoever scores the least after three tries, drinks to it.

Now it's a matter of whoever can hit the board. Neither of us seems to be able to connect with the dartboard, and the little missiles keep plummeting into the wall.

"Okay, one last try." I pick up a dart and throw it, missing my target by a good meter –or what I perceive as a meter.

We decide to call it quits, before they start charging us for the little holes in the wall, so Paul buys us another beer and some snack foods.

"I haven't had this much fun in ages," he says all rosy cheeked.

"Me neither." It's been a while since my last indulge. I liked to party in college. A lot. It became a bit of a problem, considering my family history. So I usually try to avoid alcohol, except on special occasions. Or when I really, really need it.

And oh, boy, did I ever need it today!

I feel as if a weight's been lifted. My body's stiffness from the scooter crash, my anxiety over Coates…POOF! Gone just like that.

"Why are you crying, Emmy?" asks Paul, and his voice sounds so dreamy right now.

"I'm not crying," I say, my word's slurring. And I'm not. These aren't tears in my eyes … no they're …. "Stars."

"Excuse me."

"Look, Paul, stars!"

I stand up and nearly fall over, Paul catching my arm and steadying me. The lights are so pretty. So pretty… and they make me feel all twisted inside, all happy, yet sad at the same time.

Paul looks up at the ceiling confused. He can obviously handle his liquor better than me, because he seems pretty steady on his feet. "I think those are just the ceiling lights," he says. "Then again, my perception is a little wavered at the moment."

"Yeah, I'm rather drunk too."

Paul sits me down, and the giddy feeling leaves me all together. I always hate this point. I hate feeling sad.

"I miss her," he says.

"Who?"

He says her name, but he's quiet and I can't really hear. "… I think about her every day. And if only she hadn't run off with …."

My attention keeps wavering. Poor Paul, he's pouring his heart out and I'm not even listening.

"…sometimes, I think I should confront him, my nemesis. Seek revenge for ruining my life!"

"You really hate this guy."

"Of course, he stole the woman I love," Paul's eyes get all teary. "You do not really know hate until you've experienced love… Have you ever been in love, Emmy?"

The question catches me by surprise, so of course I blurt out something stupid, "I don't know…I think maybe…I might be."

"Do go on."

"It's kind of complicated, between us."

"How so?"

"It's stupid really."

"How complicated could it be?"

"He's my boss."

"Yeesh, that does pose a problem." Paul takes a second to think. "But if your feelings are true, you have to take the chance."

"I don't know, I mean, I care about him, but I don't know if I _love _him…well of course I love him, he's a great friend, but it's whether or not I'm _in love_ with him…" Shit, this is the New Year's party all over again. "…sometimes, I just forget what love's like."

"Love is not simply forgotten."

"I feel like I'm a bad judge. I don't know if I ever knew it in the first place, you see."

"You've had your heart broken I presume?"

"In a way…."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"He was a bad man," I say. "And I hate him." Never in my life have I told anyone this. About the burden I carry. "I hate the man, for everything he is, everything he's done."

"Sounds to me like you need to move on from this asshole," says Paul.

"I'm trying."

"You can't hate him forever."

"You can't hate the man who stole your girlfriend forever either."

"That's why I'm planning revenge!"

"I don't think revenge is going to work for me," I sigh.

"Then do it in a subtler way," says Paul. "Here is what you're going to do, Emmy. You're going to say goodbye once and for all to the man you hate, and you're going to go up this other guy, your hunky boss, and confess your feelings. This willingness to move on, to accept new love, it will set you free."

"And what if I have it all wrong? What if it isn't love? What if he doesn't like me?" I ask, because Hershel Layton is more interested in books and puzzles than pursuing a relationship. Not to mention that he's older, and probably finds me childish and silly. I mean for gosh sakes, he's what, thirty-three? And he acts twice his age, with his old age gentlemanly ideals, and obscene amounts of wisdom. I will never be _that _level headed or play such a mentor role even when I start going gray!

He became a university professor at twenty-seven. Twenty-seven! I'm nearly there and what have I accomplished with my life? I'm an amateur photographer who's run one too many red lights, has a useless college degree, and has gotten into more fights than I care to keep track of. Becoming assistant to Professor Layton is probably my greatest feat.

"But what if he does?" says Paul, bringing my wavering and highly influenced mind back to the moment –those lights are so pretty. "If he returns the feelings, then you can finally move on."

"If he doesn't feel the same way, I've lost everything."

"And you've been there before. Oh, don't deny it, I know the feeling. You said a man broke your heart, I bet you felt lost then. In a hole. However, you crawled out of it, met this other guy, started a new life, but you're slipping back into the hole, and you need to get out and bury it for good. This is your chance, Emmy. Seize it!"

"I don't know…."

"Here's the deal then," says Paul. "We both have pasts to put behind us, and we'll do it together. If I can gather the courage to seek my revenge, you can confess your deep found love for the man of your dreams."

"Well, okay." To be honest, I feel like Paul won't take no for an answer, so I might as well agree. "How are you planning on getting revenge anyhow?"

"Oh, let me explain," says Paul. "First, I shall follow him, study his every move, so I know exactly how to make his life miserable!"

"Alright …." I say. Paul is starting to sound like a stalker. "Such as?"

"Replace the tea in his house with instant tea! The horrors of it!"

"Don't you want to do something more exciting?"

"What do you mean?"

"For your revenge…You said, you like disguises…couldn't you use that to get closer to him."

"Yes, yes. I like your thinking, Emmy!"

"You could really torture him. Pretend to be someone close, figure out what makes him tick."

"For sure!"

"And you're an inventor right… couldn't you like, build a giant robot or something?"

"Giant robot, bah, that's original."

"Okay, it doesn't have to be a robot. It can be something unsuspecting, like a Ferris Wheel. A remote control Ferris Wheel of doom!"

"Oh, yes that would be funny."

"And you need a new name."

"What's wrong with my name?" says Paul.

"No, offence, but Paul, really doesn't cut the whole genius out for revenge thing."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I don't know…err, Paulooo… Polo… Paolo. Yes, Paolo! Paolo the Great!"

"That sounds like a magician stage name," Paul grumbles. "Or a clown."

"But you have to admit it flows off the tongue nicely," I say, and continue my ramble, because I'm too drunk to care how stupid I sound.

Paul laughs, "So, if I agree to take your advice on terrorizing my nemesis, you'll take a risk, and tell that man of yours?"

"Deal," I say.

"Then it's settled." Paul raises his glace. "To the downfall of the men who ruined our lives!"

"That I can toast to." I go to cheers him and completely miss, throwing myself off balance and onto the floor.

Paul bursts out laughing, and I scream at him because I've spilled my drink all down my shirt, but pretty soon I join in the ridiculous fun. I look up at the ceiling. My breathing settles.

"Aren't they pretty stars?"

* * *

**Friday**

Today is one of those days where I wish I would simply cease to exist.

Stupid drinks….

Stupid Emmy for drinking so many.

* * *

**Saturday**

Paul left me.

My new friend, partner in crime and –most importantly- ride out of this shit-hole was long gone by the time I got up. According to the clerk at the front desk, he left yesterday night.

Without even saying goodbye.

At least he paid for drinks….

Wherever Paul goes from here, I just hope he ends up happy.

\-\-\

Scratch that, I hope the bastard gets put in the loony bin. It's a much longer walk to the cottage than I anticipated, and my arms feel like Jell-O from dragging my suitcase. At the very least Paul deserves a speeding ticket, as karma for leaving a girl all by herself in some small town motel.

Why does my life suck?

After walking for forever, I stumble into the meadow, the one surrounding Warren Coates' old cottage. The weather isn't as nice as the day before. It's dreary and it looks like it's going to rain again –hurray for crappy weather!

This time I make it to the cottage. It's hasn't changed much. Other than the weeds - there were never this many weeds growing out of the bricks. It never was the most charming place to begin with, just this small gray-white shack with shingles stripped off half the roof.

I remember my father promising that when I got older, we could fix it up together. Then maybe Mum wouldn't be appalled.

I brush the creaky wooden door. It's a nice door, the woods still good, just the hinges have been rusted since I was four, and now, well, it takes a good shove to get it open.

Inside it's dark, and the floorboards are creaky, and there's dust all over the floor. Other than the dust it's the same from when I was little. The hearth's still there, as well as the battered sofa and grimy windows.

Thinking back on it, my family probably could have afforded a nicer place, something with a little more class. With a little work, this cottage could pull off its own rustic charm. Maybe that's why he chose it over a fancy place with electricity and running water. To fix it, to build something wonderful and new _with me_.

I toss my suitcase down and take a seat. A knot's formed in my stomach and I really don't feel so great.

That's the thing I hate about promises.

\-\-\

This is a stupid thing to be doing.

Waiting for him.

But I know that if he is alive he will come.

After Mum died, Coates and I didn't speak. Well, we yelled sometimes, but that doesn't count. I don't really know the details of what he did all that time I spent locked in my room. He drank. He saw whores. And he never left, accept for Saturdays.

Every Saturday, without fail, he'd leave before suppertime and wouldn't come back until very late at night. I usually took this opportunity to order pizza, and blast music as loudly as I could, because, hey, no one to tell me I couldn't. I always made sure to clean up afterward. I didn't want him to be angry if I didn't.

When he did come back, he always brought a couple of wildflowers home, just like we always did for Mum. Those nights were the only times I'd hear him cry.

Is it silly to think that he would have kept this up fourteen years later? Maybe.

I circle the room, and something catches my eye. Sitting on the cold stone hearth, is a framed picture of …us. My mum, my father, and me when I was seven. We look so happy, even Coates is smiling. Next to the frame is a wilted flower and a couple of twigs.

The flower, although limp isn't completely dried out, meaning someone had to have placed it here not too long ago. And the area is the only one not covered in dust.

It had to have been him! This was the evidence that Coates did indeed still come here.

And maybe that's why I finally found the courage to come back to this place…because I know deep down that he won't.

He's dead after all. Because if he wasn't he would be here right now, wouldn't he? It was Saturday, and the right time of evening. And there's this feeling in my gut that knows the letter told the truth.

Speaking of the letter, I haven't a clue as to where Coates' Barthalul artifact is. Just another problem to deal with….

I sigh; I'm so tired of all this mess. There is still a part of me that's unwilling to accept it. That Warren Coates is dead.

That I don't have to be afraid anymore.

Not that I've been living in fear for the past years. I knew he would never track me down. Sure all I'd done was take my mother's maiden name, but it was enough to stay hidden.

Although I always wondered if he'd even tried. If he'd ever thought about me after I left.

I look at the photo in my hands. At him smiling. At all of us. Happy. Together.

There's this awful knotting sensation in my stomach, and my hands start shaking uncontrollably. I cry out and toss the picture across the room. It hits the far wall and the glass frame explodes.

I run into the night. A light drizzle has taken over the sky, and it's freezing. But I feel so hot right now, boiling mad.

"We were happy!" I scream to the sky. "We were happy and you ruined it! Why?"

No one answers me of course. I feel so stupid.

"She loved you," I shout at the top of my lungs, "I loved you! And you betrayed us!"

Why do I keep shouting?

"Were you not happy?!"

It's all in vain.

"Were we not enough?!"

He can't hear me. And if he's dead, it doesn't matter.

"Did you not feel the same way?"

It's all so pointless. So pointless. But I can't stop myself.

"I hate you! I fucking hate you, you son of a—"

Clumsy. Stupid, and clumsy and not looking where I'm going. I trip over a grove in the ground and face plant into a mud puddle.

Great. That's just great.

"I hate you," I grumble wiping muddy water from my eyes. I glance up at the sky, the dark, miserable sky, searching on my last leg of hope, for a little light. Of course all I see are the hidden stars, masked by the storm clouds.

_Cowards_.

And it strikes me how hypocritical I am. Because I'm a coward too. I ran away. I left and I never looked back. I never told Coates how much he hurt me. I never faced him.

At the time, I was too scared, an understandable reason when you're twelve. But I grew up, I had the ability to face him later in life. I always used the excuse that it was better to leave it be, because if I never came back I was the bigger person, by walking away from confrontation. The less conflict in life the better.

In truth, those were the words of a coward. What I really lacked was the guts. I could never say anything to him. I'm sure he knew I hated him, but I never told him how badly he hurt me. And here I am now, saying all the things I needed to say, but it's too late.

Here I am, ready for closure, when it's never going to come.

I wonder what he'd say to me, if I'd had the courage to stand up to him?

…Guess I'll never know.

I head back to the cottage, keeping my eyes trained above. The stars from my childhood, from a better and more beautiful time fill the gaps in my mind. My father and I, sitting under those stars, without any other care.

'_I love you Emmy, forever and always.'_

I can remember that moment so well. I can still hear him promising.

* * *

**Sunday**

I wake up to the soft plunk of dripping water, feeling cold, so, so cold.

Actually, the cold is more an emptiness, like everything's that ever mattered to me has just drained away. Last week I had my life before me, and everything was great, not perfect, but I was happy.

What's really changed since then? It's not like Warren Coates was the focus of my life before. I lived without him for years, so in the end nothing has changed. In the end wasn't he pretty much dead to me already?

I sit up from the sofa and my foot hits a puddle. I grumble, pulling off my wet sock and search for the source of the water. There are stains across the ceiling, the culprit of this mess. So this place leaks now….

Charming.

I should probably leave. That would be the smart thing to do. There's nothing left for me here. I should just take the train back to London. If I start now I can make it to a station by the early evening, be back later tonight. Assuming the old train station in the middle of nowhere is still operating that is.

But I don't follow my own advice. For some reason I spend the rest of the morning in Warren Coates' old cottage, walking over every floorboard to find the one that creaks the most, and running my hands along the rough half-rotting wood, all the while taking in the earthy smells and dust, and think about who sent that letter and what Coates ever did with that Barthalul artifact of his.

I try so hard to hold onto everything. I don't want to forget this place. Sure I could take a picture, but it wouldn't be the same.

A photograph doesn't capture the true essence of the cottage.

And I don't want to forget what the cottage means. I don't want to forget that happiness. I don't want to forget. I don't want to….

—The photograph. The picture of my family from so long ago sits among broken shards of glass, half drenched in from the growing puddle on the floor. I save it before the water eats away at the paper entirely.

I stumble to the back of the cottage, towards the hearth. My knees hit the ground and I clutch the photo to my chest, and that's the moment I realize I'm crying.

The photo doesn't capture the true essence of my family, everything we were.

But it still tugs at something and I let myself cry, just this once.

As much as I want to remember that wonderful time in my life, I would rather forget the sadness that came in the end.

There's just no winning, is there?

The photograph goes back to its original spot, where the dried out wild flowers lie untouched. I just sit there, my sobs echoing across the empty room.

And that's when I notice the twigs. I mean I saw them before, but they hadn't really struck me as anything important. But they _are_ important. The way he set them up, it's just like how I would mark off our chosen spot for stargazing.

Only my father and I knew about that. It is a message to me should I ever return to this place. And I have come back, and I have found this spot, but I don't know what it means. Maybe it means nothing. Maybe I'm just overthinking details, seeing what I want to see.

But is does mean something. Because there is no doubt in my mind that my father is dead….

For some reason, I feel sadder about it now than I did fourteen years ago.

\-\-\

Of course the rain comes down in buckets. Myself and my stuff are soaked again. Story of my shitty week.

Thankfully the train station is still in working order, and better yet I catch the last train to London. It's vacant at this point, and I'm glad to be alone. I would hate to have a stranger staring me down, trying to pick apart my story.

My sad, sad little story, about a girl who thought she could sort everything out with a trip to a crummy old cottage. Genius move right there.

In the end what did I get out of this misadventure? A trashed scooter, some nasty scrapes, a hangover, a suitcase full of wet and probably mildew covered clothes…

…and an answer.

But I still don't know who sent the letter. I still don't know where Coates' Barthalul artifact is.

Frankly, I don't care.

* * *

**Monday**

Surprisingly it isn't raining in London. If I were in a better mood, I might take it as a sign of things looking brighter from here. Instead, I take the opportunity to grab a bite to eat -a streetcar hotdog has never tasted so good.

I head over to Gressenheller, hoping to surprise the Professor because he isn't expecting me for a few more days. Also, I doubt his mailbox has been emptied since I left.

I wonder what his week was like? Surely filled with meetings and paper marking, but not nearly as eventful as mine. Then again, this is Professor Layton we're talking about. Adventure just can't keep its hands off him.

I feel as if there was something I was supposed to tell the Professor…. Well, if I can't remember it mustn't be important.

Gressenheller University comes into view. I haven't even had a chance to stop by my flat, drop my suitcase off and hang up all my clothes. But coming to the university first feels right to me. Seeing Luke and the Professor is what I need to do.

I sigh. This is a fresh start, to forget about Warren Coates, and the letter and the Philosopher Barthalul. I might actually enjoy sorting through papers and organizing schedules for once. A quiet week at the office sounds like heaven right about now.

And as I walk down the halls of Gressenheller, picking up the heaping pile of mail and head in the direction of the Professor's office, I can't help but think how good it is to be home.


End file.
